The Kadin (24 page)

He nodded.

“Have you taken the medicine the doctor prescribed?”

“It only makes me feel worse, my love. It eases the pain but addles my brain and makes me sleepy. If I must choose between pain and witlessness, then I choose pain. Should I show the least sign of weakness, there are those who lurk in the shadows only too ready to pounce upon me and bring the House of Osman tumbling down.”

Cyra sighed but said no more. Selim’s pain was obviously worsening, and of late he had become more irritable when suffering the attacks. The sun was now coloring the city below the palace, and the prince departed her chambers to make his preparations for the coronation.

Selim Khan put on the sword of Ayub on a windy spring morning. It was done hurriedly and with little pomp. He rode from the palace, his black garments of mourning for his brothers relieved only by the white egret feather in his turban. At the tomb of Ayub, the Mevlevi dervishes, a religious order who had been allied with the House of Osman from earliest times, awaited him

The Mevlevi had always been the ones to declare a sultan to the people, and now, hastily gathered, they were reluctant to name Selim sultan over the still-living Bajazet. Selim grew impatient with their chatterings, and, unconciously paraphrasing his bas-kadin’s words, he snapped at the head dervish, “While you fuss like an old woman, the northern tribes gnaw at our borders. Turkey needs a strong sultan. You yourself have seen my father’s condition. Must I kill him to satisfy your conscience? If the price of saving Turkey is the death of Bajazet, then, by Allah, kill him yourself! I will not harm one hair of his beard, but I
will be sultan!”

The head of the Mevlevi stared at Selim for a moment, then, grasping the prince’s hand, led him to a raised platform and proclaimed to the assembled crowds that Allah had willed Selim Khan to be their sultan. He fastened the bejeweled silver-sheathed sword onto Selim and stood back to allow the people a good look at their new lord.

The crowds stared in silence at the tall, grim-faced man. Then a small cheer began toward the rear of the assembled crush and rippled forward like a wave until it reached a roar. Sultan Selim Khan flashed a brief smile at his people, then, leaving the dais, leaped on his horse and, surrounded by his personal guard, returned to his capital.

At the palace gates the Janissaries swarmed forward crying, “The gift! Make the gift!”

And the pages who rode with the sultan reached into their pouches and flung handfuls of precious jewels to the eager soldiers. It was a bold and generous gesture. The head of the Janissaries, Bali Agha, struck Selim on the shoulder—the traditional greeting to a new sultan—and demanded, “Can you lead us, son of Bajazet?”

The meaning was clear. The fierce Janissaries had been idle for several years now and were eager for battle.

“I can lead you,” replied Selim, “and I will soon fill those noisy kettles of yours with enough gold to give them a more pleasant sound!”

Those within the sound of his voice began to chuckle, while others quickly repeated the sultan’s words to the men in the rear. The courtyard erupted with laughter.

“Long life to our sultan, Selim Khan,” came the cry as the new monarch, pushing his horse forward, rode through the mass of men.

Selim did not go to war for over a year. His first task was to straighten out the administrative workings of his government, which had grown lax during Bajazet’s illness while Selim had been away, chasing his brother throughout the empire. Then, too, time was needed to greet the delegations that came to bring tribute and pay homage to the new sultan.

One of these delegations came from the city of Baghdad. It presented to Selim one hundred rolls of brocaded fabric, one hundred gilded baskets of tulip bulbs, one hundred perfectly matched pale-pink pearls—and the caliph’s fourteen-year-old sister.

Knowing in advance the gifts of the Baghdad delegation, Cyra had suggested to the sultan that he give the girl to their eldest son, Suleiman. “She can be nothing more to you than a concubine, my lord, but if you give her to Suleiman, she may possibly become the mother of a future sultan, and you will do great honor to Baghdad. We shall need their friendship when we march on the shah of Persia.”

So Selim watched with interest—and possibly a small feeling of regret—as the ambassador from Baghdad handed out of the bejeweled litter a slender girl of medium height. Her hair was the color of dark honey, her eyes velvety brown, her skin a rich, golden cream. She was dressed in all shades of pink, from the deep rose of her trousers to the pale mauve of the diaphanous veil that barely masked her features.

“The youngest and most beloved of my master’s sisters, o sultan of the world. Gulbehar, the ‘Rose of Spring.’”

“We are grateful for this touching demonstration of the caliph’s loyalty,” replied Selim, “but a man of my many winters could easily frost so fair and tender a bud. Therefore I shall present her to my eldest son and heir, Prince Suleiman. Like Gulbehar, he, too, is in the spring of his life. May she please him well.”

From the latticed screen behind the sultan’s throne, Cyra laughed softly at the incredulous look on Suleiman’s face, and the expressions of delight on the faces of the Baghdad delegation.

“Well,” said her slave and confidante, Marian, “are you satisfied with your meddling?”

“Very,” replied Cyra. “I spoke with Gulbehar yesterday. She is a good and gentle girl, and will make my son a charming kadin.”

“Suleiman is shy and easily led, my lady. He needs a strong wife, though not, perhaps, while he has a strong mother.”

“You forget yourself,” said Cyra coldly.

“No, dear madam I forget nothing. Sultan Selim—may Allah bless him—will not live forever. One day you will be sultan valideh. I think you look to that day.”

“Beware, Marian. You could lose your tongue.”

“My lady, I mean only to warn you to take care. Your position as bas-kadin is an important one and therefore makes you a target There will be those within the harem who will seek to discredit you.”

Turning from the spectacle below her, Cyra asked, “What have you heard?”

“Nothing grave, madam Bath chatter. There are those young gediklis in the harem who have been heard to say they will make Sultan Selim notice them Beware, my lady. He is no longer cocooned in the Moonlight Serai with just four women, and he is, in all things, a Turk.”

“I think it would be wise to distribute some bribes,” said Cyra thoughtfully. “And Marian, keep your eyes and ears open when you visit the baths, but do not worry about the gediklis. Selim may take a hundred to his couch, but none will ever bear him a child except his chosen kadins.”

Cyra was correct. Selim did take other girls to his bed, but none conceived—the kadins saw to that When the first occasion arose, and a maiden named Feride became a guzdeh, the sultan’s four kadins acted with the utmost decorum. They welcomed her graciously to the small apartment that was given her. When the time was chosen by the court astrologer for Feride to go to her lord’s bed, the kadins themselves led her to the bridal bath, helped to dress her in the traditional blue-and-silver night garments, and sent her off to the sultan in a golden litter with their good wishes. They had even given the over-stimulated and nervous girl a soothing draft of cherry sherbet to calm her nerves.

Everyone agreed that the kadins were perfect models of Turkish female propriety, and they continued to be so. Feride became an ikbal, and they sent her small congratulatory gifts of jewelry and perfume. When other girls followed Feride to the sultan’s couch, the kadins behaved in the same generous manner. Only a few trusted slaves knew that after each maiden went her way to the sultan, the four kadins gathered in Cyra’s salon to laugh and make merry—and only Marian knew the reason for their mirth.

Of the female bazaar vendors who came to the harem there was one Esther Kira, a Jewess, who had become a favorite of Cyra. Usually the vendors left their wares with black eunuchs, who would show them to the ladies of the harem, but the tradeswomen came directly to the kadins.

Esther Kira and the bas-kadin had met soon after Selim’s family came to Constantinople. Esther was seventeen, black-haired, black-eyed, olive-skinned, plump, and merry. She was scrupulously honest and carried only the finest merchandise. Moreover, on several occasions she had obtained special items for Cyra.

One of these items, purchased in utmost secrecy, was a special herb that Esther swore would prevent conception. So far, Esther’s herb had worked, and her quilted coat jingled with the gold paid her by the kadins.

No one thought much of the new ikbals’ barrenness, for in September of 1513 Firousi Kadin presented Sultan Selim with his fourteenth child, a daughter, Nakcidil, the “Print of Beauty.” In October Zuleika followed with the birth of her daughter Mahpeyker, the “Moon-Faced One,” and finally, in late November, a son, Karim, was born to Cyra.

Of all the bas-kadin’s children the baby, Karim, was the most like her, and perhaps for that reason the dearest to her heart. Little Karim was, from birth, his mother’s image. His skin was a pure Celtic bone-white, and within a few months’ time his eyes had turned to the green-gold color of his mother’s. His hair was red, but not Cyra’s red-gold; it was, rather, a bright carrot color. His features were Cyra’s in miniature.

“He reminds me of my brother, Adam,” laughed the bas-kadin happily. “He is pure Leslie.”

“An unfortunate thing for an Ottoman prince,” remarked the sultan teasingly.

Karim’s birth came at a time when the sultan badly needed diversion. Sultan Bajazet had died quietly at his isolated serai on the Bosporus, and once more the rumors of murder sprang up to haunt Selim. Then, Lady Refet, who had been ailing, died suddenly in her sleep.

Bajazet was mourned officially and noisily, but Lady Refet was mourned quietly and in the hearts of all those who had known her. The kadins were especially stricken by the death of Selim’s aunt She was, aside from Hadji Bey, their last link with a happy past She had been their mother, their confidante, their friend. The thought of spending their future without her was devastating. If they had anything to be thankful for, thought Cyra, it was that Lady Refet had not had a long, drawn-out illness. In then-last ten years at the Moonlight Serai, she had suffered several severe attacks of breathlessness, and had become weaker with each attack. The reorganization of Bajazet’s harem, though largely administrative, took her remaining strength. In the last few months before her death, she had rarely left her suite, and when she did, she was always carried in a litter.

Cyra felt Lady Refet’s death deeply, for she had loved and admired the woman greatly. Refet had been the most selfless woman she had ever known, seeing to her own daughters’ happiness first and then devoting the rest of her life to her nephew Selim and his family. Their happiness had been her happiness; their sorrow, her sorrow. She had asked nothing for herself, but instead had given generously of her love, her time, and her understanding to those around her. It was so typical of her to the quietly in her sleep.

The harem wore black for several months, and the kadins sent word to their lord that so red were their eyes from weeping that they could not possibly appear before him. Others were not so discreet, thinking this an opportunity to curry favor with Selim.

Unfortunately, the sultan was beginning to suffer almost constant pain from the stomach ulcers that afflicted him. He had never been the most patient of men, and the agony brought on by his illness caused his temperament to undergo a drastic change. Selim was becoming cruel.

One poor new ikbal, a Provençal called Pakize, expired from a beating administered by the sultan himself when she dared to appear before him dressed in reds and blues. Another unfortunate had two fingers of her right hand cut off when she was heard playing too gay a tune on her lute. The birth of Karim brought an end to the official mourning, but the sultan was not long diverted from his bad mood The pains in his belly grew worse with each passing day. The physicians could do nothing short of administering drugs for his pain. Selim would not permit this.

He had changed The sultanate weighed heavily on him. His temper grew short, and the slightest infraction of rules was punished quickly, though fairly. He still sharply resented the fact that the old shah of Persia had secretly encouraged his brother Ahmed by supplying him with weapons and food thus prolonging the civil war.

Then one day the Janissaries overturned their kettles and began to beat upon them. Striding into their midst, the sultan demanded to know their complaint

“Where is the gold you promised to fill our kettles with?” demanded a young soldier.

Selim glowered at the boy and toyed with the idea of lopping his head off, but fortunately for all, his sense of justice remained intact “Prepare yourselves,” he shouted at them. “We march within a month!”

The Janissaries roared their approval. War! Glorious war had come to the Ottoman Empire.

29

T
HE
O
TTOMANS
had consistently faced west in their conquests, yet Selim Khan chose Persia for his first war. There was a good deal of speculation regarding this move. Some said he marched east because Shah Ismail had supported his brother Ahmed. Others, because his son, Prince Omar, had been killed by the Persians, who had aided Ahmed. The latter appeared to be true, since his third wife, Zuleika Kadin, went with him.

In part they were all correct, but a greater motive lay behind the sultan’s decision to war on Persia. Selim’s spies had found a descendant of Baghdad’s last Abbasid caliph, the man who was spiritual ruler of Islam. Selim believed that all the Muslim world should be united under one leader, both spiritual and temporal, and he intended that he and each Ottoman sultan who followed him would be that leader.

Technically he had no claim, and, more important, he did not have the murdered caliph’s heir, who now lived in Egypt. There were others who also sought to become the spiritual head of Islam. Selim knew he must work quickly.

Selim, with a wisdom that had helped him to survive these forty-seven years, turned to Persia, where Shah Ismail, a convert to the Islamic schism of Shiism, now ruled. The sultan, like his Catholic counterparts in Europe now facing a similar problem in the form of Martin Luther, intended to stamp out this heresy, rescue the caliph’s heir, and, based on his devotion to the pure and true form of Islam, have himself named hereditary Defender of the Faith.

In the month that followed Selim’s decision to go to war, the great army was fully provisioned and the government set up to run smoothly in the sultan’s absence. Firousi and Sarina were to remain in Constantinople, where in Selim’s absence they were to take charge of the children and the harem, while the sultan’s new vizier would see to the everyday affairs of the government

Suleiman, Mohammed, Kasim, Abdullah, and Murad were to accompany their father, as was Cyra. Zuleika, reminding the sultan of her own secret quarrel with Persia, also went with her lord.

They left Constantinople on a bright morning in late winter. The air was crisp despite the sun, and snow still clung to the distant mountains. Riding out from the Eski Serai, Sultan Selim was a magnificent sight on his black stallion, Devil Wind. The horse sported a beautiful gold-embroidered and fringed-green silk throw, made by the ladies of the harem, over his shining back and flanks. Selim was particularly pleased with his dark leather saddle, bridle, and heavy gold stirrups. Like all Ottoman princes, Suleiman and Mohammed had learned a trade. The heir was an extremely competent goldsmith. His brother was a fine leatherworker. Despite their heavy schedule of studies, the two princes had found the time to make their father this gift

Selim was dressed in dove-gray silk embroidered with silver thread and small emeralds. He was accompanied by his Tartars and a troop of Janissaries. They would be ferried across the Bosporus, which separated the European side of the city from the Asian side where the army awaited them. The crowds lining the streets cheered wildly as their lord rode off to war with the Persians.

After two years as sultan, Selim still retained his popularity. It was true he rarely smiled now, was becoming more short-tempered and had already disposed of three grand viziers. But these failings were easily overlooked because of his one great virtue—he insisted on honest and scrupulously fair judgments in his law courts. The Turks, who already encompassed several races and nationalities as well as many religions, knew they could trust him. He was being called Selim the Just.

At that moment the people loved their stern sultan, and he could do no wrong. They cheered him as he rode off to war and the beginnings of Turkey’s greatest conquests. How could they realize that eaten with cancer, his personality would change for the worse, and he would be renamed Selim the Grim—the title that fickle history would perpetuate?

In her heavily curtained litter, the noise of the crowd adding to the pain in her already throbbing temples, reclined the bas-kadin. Cyra did not want to make this trip, and despite the fact that past Ottoman women had accompanied their lords into battle, she was of the firm opinion that women did not belong on the batüefield.

Zuleika had insisted upon going to personally claim her vengeance, and so Cyra must go, too, lest the people misunderstand the sultan’s taking Zuleika, and her own future position be jeopardized and weakened.

It was not that she didn’t wish to be with Selim—she did—but at this moment she was annoyed with him. Of late he had ignored his kadins in favor of an overblown French ikbal who pandered to his dark moods. When they returned to Constantinople, the girl would be dead. Cyra had personally seen to that.

She had not done it out of jealousy or with malice, but because the girl had flaunted her small yet favored position to all in the harem, with particular emphasis in the direction of the kadins. Selim would have grown tired of her soon enough, but in the meantime the girl’s rudeness might be emulated by others.

She was not a bright creature, or she would have known better, and Cyra fully expected her to give Firousi and Sarina trouble, but it would not be for long. She would one day soon be given small doses of poison in her food, sicken slowly, and it would appear that she had died a natural death.

In all her years in Turkey, Cyra had arranged a death only once before—long ago in those early days at the Moonlight Serai. She had always tried to win her point with reason, and it distressed her to have ordered a death. However, she reasoned, the Frenchwoman was a troublemaker and must be disposed of lest she influence the other girls in the harem to similar acts of disobedience.

The baby, Karim, stirred in the crook of her arm and whimpered. Unbuttoning her blouse, she put him to her breast It annoyed her to take her five-month-old son on this long trip, but when Selim had suggested she leave him with a wet muse, she had turned on him like a tigress. It was no secret to those in the imperial household that the bas-kadin’s youngest child was her favorite.

Six-month-old Mahpeyker also accompanied her mother, because Cyra had insisted Karim have a playmate of his own age. Zuleika, though amused at the idea of the two infants playing, had not dared to laugh, for she knew that without Cyra’s presence she herself would not have been allowed to go. With unusual good nature, for she cheerfully would have left her daughter with a nurse, she, too, traveled with her child.

As the army made its progress through Asia, Cyra noted a change taking place in Zuleika. In the twenty-two years they had been together, the beautiful Chinese had rarely permitted her emotions to show. The bas-kadin liked and admired her friend, but she had always suspected that as happy as Zuleika was as Selim’s third kadin, she had never been able to forgive fate for the insult it had dealt to her pride, even though it had gained her that happiness.

Now, as they drew close to Persia, Zuleika allowed her thoughts to drift backward in time, and spoke for the first time in many years of the events which had made her a sultan’s third wife, rather than a shah’s first. For the slave who was now queen mother of Persia, she had nothing but contempt For the old shah’s concubine, Shannez, her hatred burned hot The sultan had promised Zuleika that she might name their punishment Cyra knew she was putting a great deal of thought into it The bas-kadin shuddered and thanked Allah that she was not Zuleika’s enemy. If the Chinese’s hatred could burn so steadily for so long, her punishment would be terrible.

Word came that Shah Ismail had left the city of Ispahan, and with his army was coming out to meet the Turks. Selim was delighted, as it gave him the opportunity to choose the battleground. The decisive battle was set in the valley of Chaldiran, high in the mountains of eastern Anatolia.

At the western end of the valley, the Turks set up camp—row upon orderly row of little yellow tents for the soldiers, several large cook tents and hospital tents, and, at the camp’s center, the green-and-gold-striped pavilion of the sultan. Selim’s quarters actually comprised several tents set upon a carefully constructed, tiered platform. There was a small command tent where the sultan met and conferred with his captains. Another tent was used for cooking meals. A third housed the royal infants and their nurses, and a fourth, the sultan and his wives. This last was quite large and was divided into several rooms—a public reception salon, a private salon, and sleeping quarters for the sultan and his family. The furnishings were quite elegant and rich. Thick carpets covered the wood flooring. There were low, round tables of ebony banded with mother-of-pearl, and tables of highly polished copper inlaid with blue mosaic Fine brass lamps burned softly over the pure jeweled colors of the plump silk cushions. The sultan’s sleeping quarters were the most Spartan in the pavilion. His bedchamber contained a couch, a gilded leather trunk, a small writing desk, and a chair.

Cyra and Zuleika had each furnished her separate quarters luxuriously with sheer hangings, rich velvets, multicolored silks, and thick furs. Their sleeping couches were gilded wood, their lamps, which burned fragrant oils, were made of pure silver encrusted with precious gems. Opening off their rooms was an entrance leading outdoors and down a curtained way to a natural rock pool where they might bathe in privacy.

The pavilion was quite comfortable, considering the situation and the lack of slaves. Each night after he had dined with his sons and officers, the sultan would retire to the private salon and the comfort of his kadins. Sometimes the young princes would join them, and it would become a warm and familiar family evening.

On nights when the encampment lay quietly in sleep, Selim would come to Cyra’s room and slip beneath the soft white fur coverlet into the warmth of her arms. Zuleika, with her fierce desire for vengeance, was not a fit companion for her lord now. As always in times of crisis, the sultan turned to his bas-kadin. Her slim body comforted him, and he was able to forget for a time the empire, the coming battle, and the fierce pain in his belly. Often, after the delicious physical contact that so delighted them both, they would he facing each other and talk.

How the Ottoman officials would have gaped in amazement if they could have seen and heard their great lord speak to this mere woman of such varied matters as his future plans for conquest, a new variety of peach tree he had heard of that he must have for the orchards of the Eski Serai, the building he was planning to erect in the gardens of the Yeni Serai to house the treasures he was collecting, and the fate of his children.

Selim knew that whatever he said to Cyra remained with her and her alone. She was one of the few people he trusted completely. He knew that his interests were hers, and even after their many years together, her tact, wisdom, loyalty, and sense of justice—which he found equal to his—still pleased him.

The pain in his belly had eased to a dull steadiness that he was able to bear. Morning would come soon, and with it the battle that would be fought between him and the Shiite upstart, Shah Ismail. At sunset the previous evening he had seen a fiery sword in the sky pointing east His soldiers had become very excited, and the mullahs had cried that it meant Allah was sending His blessing upon Selim the Just the true believer, Defender of the Faith. They would defeat the Persians. Selim, though a devout Muslim, was not a believer in signs. They would win tomorrow, but they would win because for the first time in history the Ottoman army would be using artillery. With this satisfying thought, he fell asleep in the warm curve of Cyra’s soft body.

The following morning, dressed in quilted, hooded silk cloaks and heavily veiled, the kadins watched the panorama from a specially constructed platform. At the far eastern end of the valley, they could see the camp of the shah of Persia. Between the two encampments the battle raged.

The Persians fought valiantly, but from the start they were badly outclassed by the Turks’ new artillery. Over and over again, groups of the sultan’s swift horsemen would dart in among them, draw them within range of the Ottoman guns, and then dash off, leaving the shah’s soldiers to be shot to pieces.

Ismail’s troops had neither seen nor faced artillery before. They fought the Turks as they always fought an enemy, and the results were disastrous for Persia

The smells of blood, gunpowder, horses, and sweat mingled in the wind to create a nauseating odor, and the kadins held clove-studded oranges to their noses to block the stench.

Watching as Suleiman’s and Mohammed’s soldiers cut to ribbons a troop of Persian horsemen misled into thinking that Prince Suleiman was separated from his cavalry, Zuleika observed. “They are still small boys who play at war.”

Cyra nodded in grim agreement She was angered at her eldest son for taking what she considered foolish chances, and a little frightened of the battle The noise of the guns deafened her, and seeing men fall dead about her seemed unreal. The bearers ran back and forth carrying the wounded from the battleground to the medical tents. Some of the fallen were horribly maimed and torn, for the simple Turkish soldier, as unused to the guns as his Persian counterpart, was suffering also.

Cyra put her hands to her ears for a brief moment to still the terrible din, and saw Selim on Devil Wind—in the midst of the fray—his scimitar flashing like a bright and terrible butterfly. His lips moved constantly, and she instinctively knew he was shouting encouragement to his men over the cacophony of the battle.

A messenger rode up to Cyra. “Madam, I regret to inform you that Prince Kasim has been killed. His body is being brought to the sultan’s pavilion.” The messenger wheeled his horse about and galloped off.

As she swayed and the scene before her eyes swam, she felt Zuleika’s arm tighten about her. “It is the will of Allah,” she heard her own voice say. “Praises on Allah and Mohammed, His Prophet” Zuleika led her back to their tent

The Battle of Chaldiran was a great victory for Sultan Selim. Shah Ismail himself, along with his personal possessions and his favorite wife, Tacli Hanim, had been captured. The victory fires burned high and hot throughout the night The sounds of the drum and flute echoed over the valley, and the laughter of women could be heard among the tents. The shah had traveled neither lightly nor without amenities, and Selim’s soldiers had found, much to their delight, a number of attractive female slaves and dancing girls in the Persian camp. Though the officers had been allowed first choice, there were enough women left to satisfy the men’s needs.